


strings, crossing

by morthael



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - College/University, Career Ending Injuries, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Angst, Music as a Metaphor for Teamwork, Or Is It?, all of the main characters play an instrument, student societies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26561989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morthael/pseuds/morthael
Summary: Keith wasn’t expecting to be conscripted as first violin into Allura’s ragtag Altea University Orchestra, especially with a violinist as illustrious as Shiro attending the same university. Unfortunately, Shiro has other plans – and no intentions to join, or ever play again.
Relationships: Allura & Keith (Voltron), Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this half-baked idea came to me as I was watching the [undertale concert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=srZdDAJbHfc&t&ab_channel=UNDERTALEOfficial)...WHAT IF Voltron... but as a string quintet...I love ensembles and the idea of team bonding as a chamber music ensemble...I mean chamber music is literally known as music between friends!!! but ALSO CONSIDER...the team looking spiffy in concert blacks!!!??? This is super self-indulgent and I am now going to let you know how much I love music!!!

Keith was lost.

Two weeks into the start of his first semester of university and he was still getting lost in labyrinthine hallways that seemed to spit him out into undiscovered corners of the campus every time he turned around. The University of Altea was a craggy old campus that was a fairy tale castle pretending to be an educational institution – gothic sandstone facades and great big towers adorned by great big stone gargoyles, and winding corridors that all looked the same. 

It hardly helped that Keith had missed welcome week – moving into his cramped new accommodation had been all the encouragement he had needed to avoid the crush of eager new students. Now, it was a decision that he was trying not to regret. Two weeks into the start of his first semester of university, and he knew no one; no professors or other students, not even which fucking hallway he needed to take to get back to familiar ground.

Keith could feel a familiar churn between his ribs as his steps quickened and grew unsteady, the burning sliver of irritation thrumming like a hummingbird in his chest – but before the buzz could crescendo into a dull roar, the hallway twisted to the left into something recognisable, and Keith followed it into sunshine, blinking as bright green grass glared up at him. Finally – the university’s quadrangle – and a landmark that he could actually recognise in this godforsaken maze of a university.

He paused to catch his breath next to a sandstone column, the surface warm to touch as he leaned against it. A bright, clean poster was stuck to the column, big colourful block letters that read, _ALTEA ORCHESTRA – LOOKING FOR NEW MEMBERS_. Below, a cartoonish rendering of a violin and piano together and below that still, what looked like someone’s contact number. It all looked disgustingly too cheerful.

Keith scrunched his face. Of all the societies he could have stumbled across an ad for, and, well, it had to be _this_ one? He pushed off the column, suddenly ready to leave.

“Hey there,” a voice said.

Keith whirled.

A very pretty young woman was standing next to the pillar, and Keith was momentarily blinded by the mane of silver hair that practically glowed in the sun. Then, belatedly, he realised she was waiting on some kind of response; his brain sparked with all the vigour of a rusty, grinding gear – he formulated, and discarded a dozen responses, mouth full of ash with words that struggled to come out perfectly composed and polite.

“I’m Allura,” the woman said smoothly, her voice a posh tone colour that would normally set Keith on edge, but with such an open, honest face that left him helplessly, half-heartedly waving a hand back instead. He tried to mold his expression into something less severe. (The mother at the home would be so proud.)

“I saw you looking at my poster,” Allura continued, nodding at the garish thing. “We’re new, and looking for new players and – I would be so pleased if you joined.” She clasped her hands together. “You looked like someone who plays. You do play an instrument, right?”

“Uh, violin,” Keith said automatically, and then snapped his jaw shut, perplexed. He was supposed to be trying to extricate himself from this situation, and, judging by Allura’s sparkling eyes, the operation was not going as planned.

“That is _perfect_ ,” Allura exclaimed, and Keith edged himself backwards, uncomfortable. “You _must_ join. We need you – er, what did you say your name was, again?”

That was a neat little exaggeration, Keith thought, no one _needed_ him for anything.

“Keith,” his traitorous mouth supplied helpfully.

“Look, I don’t think I’m exactly the person you’re looking for,” he added hurriedly when Allura only beamed harder. “I’m not great, I haven’t played in – well, I mean, I don’t want to play – “

“Well, we all have to start from somewhere,” Allura interrupted him, but now her posh voice was gentle, not raw and unbalanced like Keith’s, timbre like honey and not rough stones scraping and bouncing across concrete, words tumbling from his mouth too fast, too hot. “Please,” she continued, cajoling, “I would love to have you join the team. Our first meeting will be in a week, and I really hope to see you there.”

Keith numbly accepted the leaflet she pressed into his hand; it was a smaller version of the colourful poster on the column.

“We’ll be at the Lighthouse Chamber at on Wednesday at five. You can give the number on the poster a ring if you don’t know where to go.” Allura smiled sunnily up at him, innocently, like she hadn’t just pressed him into her orchestra group. “Do you have any questions? Ask me anything.”

“No,” he said, then hesitated. Well, she did say _anything_... “Do you know where the Engineering Building is?”

*

Shiro rubbed at his shoulder absently as he leaned back against the plush red fabric of his little nook on the rooftop café. Two cups of coffee, dine-in, sat on the scuffed table.

The café was a well-kept secret, supposedly exclusive to staff at the university, but as a student services officer – a glorified customer service role, really – and with Shiro’s height and tuft of white that aged him a solid ten years at a distance, no one had batted an eye at him since he first stumbled into the café in his first year here. It was a little out of the way, only accessible by the north stairs of the Science Building, or a dilapidated service lift that took an age to rattle its way to the top – but the service was good and the atmosphere nice during the slow days. 

The door clanged open and – there was no mistaking that mop of unruly brown – a man strode in, twirling in place before clapping eyes on Shiro’s little corner. Matt grinned, hurrying over and dropping into the booth with him.

“Thought I made a mistake ordering for you too early,” Shiro said, raising his cup in a little toast. To his satisfaction, the cup stayed steady, not wobbling or spilling or jerking in his grasp. Matt tracked the movement as well, a pleased grin on his lips. He clinked cups with Shiro before slurping the froth off his cappuccino.

“Uh, yeah. Had to drop Pidge off on the other side of campus. Then drove all the way around to find a parking space.” He shook his head, looking put out. “Can you believe the nerve, the uni raising parking prices _again_ when I had to drive around for ten minutes before I could get a space?”

Shiro chuckled. “You wouldn’t have a problem if you got here before nine,” he said.

“Shiro! Not everyone gets up at ass o’clock in the morning to drive to uni!”

Shiro laid his latte down gently and his fingers let go of the cup with a quiet whirr and hum. “It’s perfectly reasonable to get up early to come to gym here,” he said with a straight face. “Altea has great facilities. The parking situation at six o’clock is just a bonus.”

Matt chugged his coffee, not bothering to dignify him with a response.

A smile cracked its way past Shiro’s poker face. And then: “You said you were dropping Pidge off?” 

Matt smiled again, pride written clearly over his face. “Yep. Baby’s first year at university. Computer science, and we’re not even a whole month into session and she’s rioting about how easy the course is.”

“Time passes fast,” Shiro said fondly. “Maybe she’ll get to skip another year.”

Matt scoffed. “More likely she’ll be picking up another two majors on the side. While pestering Dad to volunteer at the lab. And while still banging on with her viola on the side. Seriously, I don’t know where she gets all her energy – ”

The smile slipped from Shiro’s face. “What?”

Cut off, Matt paused, fumbling. “Oh – nothing. She told me she joined a student group. I think it’s a classical music society.” He laughed, awkwardly. “Guess all that’s still stuck with her.”

“Yeah.” Shiro swallowed, his heart kicking around in his chest drumming a rhythm, off-beat. He stared down at his cup of coffee, appetite suddenly gone. “That’s nice.”

The words sounded as hollow as he felt. 

*

It was weird that the university had a _lighthouse_ , when the entire campus was inland, hardly overseeing any amount of water, but as Keith reached the end of the winding gravel path, he realised the building was more than just a lighthouse – it was a lighthouse built atop a grand hall, in the same style as the rest of the university – and as Keith palmed the door open and stepped inside, he saw a polished stage, framed with rich red-and-gold trimmed curtains. A sparkling Steinway stood in the middle of the stage. So this was a concert hall, then; a smallish one. This was okay. This was familiar. Taking a breath, Keith treaded forward with more purpose, gripping tight the handle of his violin case.

The inside of the hall was a few degrees warmer than the chill of the autumn evening air outside, he noted, rubbing his bare arm with relief.

Someone had set up a few seats just below the stage – the flippy-foldy sort of chairs that hurt to sit on for too long. Allura was there, fussing with the layout, but she turned around as Keith came closer, somehow sensing him even with his footsteps, with the soles of his well-worn sneakers ground into smooth rubber, barely sounding in the draughty hall. There was another man already there with Allura, his back to Keith but the shadow of a bushy moustache somehow still visible from behind.

“Hey,” Keith said, as both looked to him. Allura's face broke out into a beatific smile.

“You came, oh, I’m so glad you came!” she said, rushing forward. “Please, make yourself comfortable, put your things down here.” She gestured vaguely towards the plasticky chairs.

The man stepped forward – he looked fairly middle-aged, tall with neatly groomed ginger hair, and he was pulling on one end of his bushy moustache as he gestured a dramatic wave.

“Ah, welcome!” he said cheerfully, the voice high and discordant as he leaned in far too closely to peer at Keith, who tried to surreptitiously lean away. “Coran’s the name, and _Orchestra Altea_ is the game!” He beamed. “You’re right on time, by the way!”

Keith dropped his well-used bag onto a chair and lowered his case to the ground, not quite willing to take a seat while Coran was looming over him. “I see,” he said.

“It’s _Altea Orchestra_ ,” Allura said, taking in Keith’s face and looking wry. “Coran is a professor in the music faculty. And, because each student group needs a staff contact – Coran happily agreed to be ours.”

“I won’t need to be at every meeting, of course,” Coran added, clasping his hands behind his back. “But the university hasn’t had a classical music society in so long – the last one was disbanded years ago now. I’m excited to see it back!”

“Yeah, well…” Keith cast around a little, at the empty concert hall save the three of them. “Just how big is this group, anyway?”

Allura frowned and glanced downwards at her wrist. “I had a few more people text me for more information about tonight, but – ”

On cue, the door slammed open, drawing in a gust of cold air and the sound of muffled shouting, and then three shapes bowled through the open door before it slammed shut behind them.

Keith stared, mystified. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Allura bring a dainty hand to her mouth – in surprise, or muffling a giggle, Keith didn’t know.

The three figures disentangled themselves – two tallish boys, and one tiny girl – and once they were all standing independently, Keith saw instrument cases in their hands.

“So, so, _so_ sorry for being late,” the one in the middle said, addressing Allura, his big hands open in what appeared to be an apology. His voice was pleasantly low, but with a note of frayed nerves ticking upwards into panic. Keith looked to Allura, who definitely was now hiding a smile behind her hand – and he almost missed the sharp movement in the periphery of his vision. He jerked his head back towards the group, flinching automatically.

“It’s _you!!!_ ” the other boy howled, stabbing his finger at Keith.

Keith looked at the absolute stranger in front of him. The mixture of consternation and anger on his face made Keith itch to retort back, but – he was patient, he was better than that. Keith kept his fists loose at his side. He’d probably mistaken him for someone else.

“Why is _Keith_ here?” the boy continued to screech, and _his_ voice was like the shrill whistle of a blown-out recorder, and now Keith wished his ears could clap themselves shut.

He forced his face into a polite grimace. “Sorry,” he tried to emphasise the first word as non-apologetically as possible, “who are you?”

“ _What?!_ Hunk, he doesn’t even remember me!”

Hunk, the one in the middle, rolled his eyes heavenward. “Okay, Lance, maybe we shouldn’t get too excited about this. I mean, maybe there’s a good explanation for this.” A pause. “Maybe Keith has amnesia?”

Keith was unimpressed.

“Or, I dunno, maybe we should also focus on, uh…”

“…the fact that Allura is waiting for us all to shut up so we can start?” the girl piped up.

“Yes!” Hunk said, looking to Allura. “Thank you, Pidge!” His big frame was practically collapsing in on himself with embarrassment. “Look, the truth is, we got kind of lost finding the Lighthouse and may have gone around in circles a few times before finding the right path, because really? This place is a bit of a maze. But the important thing is that we’re here now! And, uh, ready when you are.”

Allura giggled now, unable to smother it with her hand. “It’s good to meet you all,” she said, but then looked between Keith and the boy called Lance, who had momentarily given up on glaring at Keith to look at Allura starry-eyed. “But…it does appear that you have some history with each other.”

“Oh, oh, don’t worry about _him_ ,” Lance interrupted, and with a flourish, swept the strap off his shoulders and set his cello case on the ground. Huge, glossy blue, though Keith had been half-expecting a flute or piccolo instead. “Has he been bothering you? I’m Lance, by the way.” Keith could almost hear honey trying to ooze its way out of his mouth.

“Thank you, Lance,” Allura said, diplomatically, and waved them all closer. “Please, all of you, put your things down and sit.” She gestured towards the chairs, and Keith moved in with a tense sigh, gingerly sitting down.

Hunk was also carrying a cello, packed in a fibreglass case of bright yellow. Pidge carried something considerably smaller, in a less eye-watering black, but bigger than Keith’s – a viola. From a glance around the hall, it didn’t appear Allura had brought anything, apart from the pale pink handbag that was slung across the back of one of the chairs.

“You’ve got to be seriously bad at faces,” Pidge muttered as she pushed her case next to Keith’s, thankfully taking the seat between him and Lance. “Symphony orchestra for two years? You still don’t recognise us?”

Keith pretended to think about it for a moment. “No.”

If they had played together in high school, it was fine if he didn’t remember. High school, as a whole, he wouldn’t mind forgetting that entire part of his life. And it had been a big orchestra. It was hardly on him to remember three faces among a crowd of over fifty.

Pidge laughed, high and clear. “Okay.” And then she left it. Keith could appreciate that. The less time they spent talking, the better. He’d already been strong-armed into coming; it would be great if they could all just get to the meat of the moment.

Allura stood up, clapping her hands together, and Keith sat up to attention.

“Everyone,” she said. “Firstly, thank you all for coming. My name is Allura, and I am currently the founder, and president, of the Altea Orchestra.” She stopped and made a face. “Although, I do admit I had hoped for a few more members to start out with, to live up to the name of the society.”

Coran stepped forward, clearing his throat into his fist. “Allura, if I may?” he said, and Allura inclined her head. “I don’t see this as a roadblock at all. Why, just looking at all your instruments – I daresay we have a string quartet right here with us now – and a piano quintet with you, of course. A perfect team for creating lovely chamber music!”

Allura nodded, but Pidge was crossing her arms. “This isn’t a string quartet,” she said.

“Pidge is right,” Lance crowed. “I mean, in a quartet we’d have to follow Keith’s lead, right? No way!”

Keith glared, but inwardly sirens were blaring _no no no,_ and _bad idea_. At least in an orchestra he could just blend in with the rest of the violins – he’d rather play solo than deal with the expectation that came with playing in a chamber ensemble. 

“No, Lance,” Pidge said heatedly. “I mean, look at our instruments.” She roughly gestured towards the ground. “One violin, one viola, and two cellos. That doesn’t fit _any_ arrangement I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, violists usually can play the violin too, right?” Hunk leaned forward. “And I _know_ you can. I guess that could work?”

“That’s great, but that leaves us a viola short.” Lance crossed his arms.

“So one of us subs for a viola!” Hunk said, nodding. “We play on the same strings. Easy!”

“Uh, yeah, good idea,” Lance retorted, “except I can’t fucking read viola clef!”

Keith couldn’t help it. He let out a tiny snort. Lance rounded on him. “Shut it, Keith! I bet you can’t either!”

“Actually…” Keith said. “I can.” One tone up and an octave down. Nothing difficult about that. He could do it in his sleep.

“All of you, please!” Allura’s voice rang out, bringing the argument to an end. “Pidge, I do know of works that do use the very layout we have present. It may be that we should learn one of those arrangements and perform them to gather more interest for the society.”

She frowned. “But there is one additional complication. For any student groups to be officially sanctioned by the university, all of them will need to have at least five official members – apart from the president – at the census date. Right now, there are only the four of you.”

“So. We can’t form the society then?” Keith asked. He didn’t know whether he was feeling disappointment or relief.

“Not at all,” Allura said, smiling. “Well, at least, not yet. But I suppose it does put a timer on our search for new members. So, I know this may be a big ask, but – if you any friends who play at all, please – I ask that you encourage them to join.” She rocked back on her heels. “And in the meantime, why don’t we see what we can do with those instruments, hmm?”

Keith hooked a hand between his legs under the chair and pulled his case out, battered black fabric gone grey with accumulated dust. This particular violin had been bought second hand from the school’s buy-back scheme – if you rented an instrument for a year, you could buy it discounted come the second year.

Keith stood, scooping the violin out, then the bow, fiddling with the tightness of the bow hair. Allura hopped up onto the stage, bypassing the stairs, ringing out an A on the grand piano, and the sounds of the others tuning brought a rush of familiarity back to him. His fingers danced across strings in a haze of half-forgotten memory.

He didn’t realise Allura was standing in front of him until her shadow fell across him. She took the seat closest to him. “So, tell me,” she said, excitement deepening her voice. “What do you know? What do you play?”

Keith paused, his bow drawing out a low, tentative sound. “I haven’t played in months,” he said bluntly.

“Oh,” Allura said, like the thought was somehow absurd to her. “Well, I won’t ask why. How long have you been playing?”

Keith shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t balancing the violin. “I don’t know. I started pretty young, but then I stopped for a while. Picked it back up when I was thirteen.”

His dad had had a full size violin – after he was gone, it had floated around with him from home to home until one day, it was gone. It hadn’t been until he’d transferred in and joined the school orchestra that he’d laid his hands on another.

He played a slow scale, just to feel the ebony of fingerboard solid against his fingertips. “What about you?” he asked, ignoring the too-sharp prickle of resentment that thoughts of his first violin brought.

“I’ve played piano since I was a young child,” Allura said, staring wistfully up at the Steinway. “My father was a musician, too. It’s why I wanted to start this society. To honour him in a way, I suppose.”

Keith looked up. _Was._ His heart beat in sympathy, but his mouth couldn’t form the appropriate words – so he moved his fingers instead, sketching out a rusty, half-formed melody. His movements were hesitant, not _con agitato_ as directed, but across the room, Pidge seemed to recognise it anyway, hurrying over.

“That’s Halvorsen’s _Passacaglia for violin and viola_ ,” she said in delight, lifting her bow. “Let me play with you!”

“Also playable with violin and cello,” Lance called out, lifting his cello with a small struggle and waddling over. “Though,” he made a face, “no thanks to the thought of a duet with _Keith_.”

Keith had never played the _Passacaglia_ with a partner before; he was surprised with each harmonising note as he stormed through the opening measures, then struggled to catch up as Pidge took the melody, too fast – “Too slow!” Pidge said, but she was grinning wildly, and for all of Lance’s lofty words _he_ was leaning in closer too, his eyes alive with wonder as Keith struggled through trills and harmonics and felt a thrill of excitement, rising and catching in his throat. 

He stumbled, his left hand tripping over unreliable muscle memory, and the thread of togetherness Keith had collapsed, trickling away into silence. Pidge stopped too, face still aglow, but the stance of her shoulders in an upward tilt, questioning.

Keith ducked his head, shrugging a bit helplessly, but when he looked up again, Allura looked _radiant_ , and Lance and Hunk and Coran had all gathered around, and no one looked annoyed or irritated – they were smiling, Keith and Pidge’s impromptu duet rough around the edges but raw with honesty.

Keith allowed himself a small smile as well. The expectations, the discipline, that could all come later – for now, he could lose himself in what was right with the world.

*

After the first meeting, Hunk set up a group chat for the five of them. Keith wasted no time in muting it – and then on second thought, unmuting Allura and Pidge. That was why, as he sat in the library café wasting time before class, he found himself digging his phone out after feeling a dull buzz against his leg.

[8:42am] Pidge: _We should look for a violinist to be our sixth member. That will balance our group out._

Yes, Keith agreed, and another violinist would take the burden off him. He hadn’t missed the way Allura had narrowed her eyes at him thoughtfully after they had played, and no matter how much he liked music, he was not about to be alright with leading any sort of ensemble. He left that to people who were better suited to that, thanks.

Keith clicked his phone off, ready to down his coffee and head to class. Shoving his phone away, he stood, picking his case off the ground as well. An aborted motion in the corner of his eye gave him pause – he turned, and then froze.

“Keith?” he heard faintly through the rush of blood thundering through his ears. His eyes were wide.

And there he was; hands in his pockets, looking taller, bigger, more carefree than Keith had ever remembered seeing. Someone he thought he’d never see again.

“Shiro,” he croaked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](https://morthael.tumblr.com/) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/anuveon)
> 
> alright so my reasoning was:
> 
> Shiro and Keith as violins - makes sense since they both lead Voltron  
> Pidge as viola/violin - honestly anyone who can read C clef is a genius in my books  
> Hunk and Lance as cellos - I'm a leg  
> Allura on piano - she is a certified virtuoso and can step on me
> 
> ALSO
> 
> The typical setup for a string quartet is 2 violins, 1 viola and 1 cello. 
> 
> I was looking for unconventional quartet instruments and found this [Arensky string quartet for 1 violin, 1 viola, and 2 cellos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pqXapxW4fn8&ab_channel=ChamberMusicSocietyofLincolnCenter). (HOLY CRAP this piece is so rich and melancholy with the addition of the extra cello and this has confirmed in my mind once again that cellos are the superior instrument)
> 
> Also Keith and Pidge play this [Passacaglia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nnOoAnLL7vY&ab_channel=HayangParkViolist) by Johan Halvorsen. It was written for violin and viola, and I first heard it played by a classmate accompanied by a violist but the most famous recordings of it seem to use a cello. Works well either way!  
> Another chapter is coming! Looking forward to nerding out in the notes again 😊


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, so, I thought I could finish this fic up in 2 chapters but I kept adding stuff in, and then...the chapter was going to become way too long, so I've decided to add an extra chapter. NICE

It was like Keith was in a vacuum, out in space – all the air had been sucked out of his lungs.

“Shiro?” he said again, unsteadily.

Shiro stood in front of him like a half-formed dream; like his memory had taken all the missing years and filled in the blurred gaps. He was tall, even taller than before, broad-shouldered in a way that tugged teasingly at the seams of his cotton shirt – but strangest of all, was the gash of faded pink that slashed horizontally across Shiro’s nose – and the stripe of white that lined Shiro’s hair, a pale forelock where there had previously only been black.

“You look good,” Keith blurted, which was _not_ what he had meant to say, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret the words as Shiro beamed down at him. “Cool, uh, dye job,” he tried to salvage the situation.

“You look good, too,” Shiro said, kindly choosing to ignore Keith’s struggling, and his voice was something mellifluous and soft, low and damningly gentle. “And – wow, you’ve grown a lot taller,” he added, his hand emerging from a pocket to wave absently up and down. He smiled, so easily. “Want to grab a coffee – my treat? It’s been a while since we caught up.”

Helplessly, Keith gestured at the half-empty coffee loosely held in his hands.

“Oh,” Shiro said, “Well…well – you don’t have class, do you?”

“I can skip,” Keith said seriously, immediately. He flushed then, as Shiro passed a critical eye over him, forehead crinkling in amusement – or concern. The words had come too fast – too eager. Keith lifted his shoulders sheepishly.

“If you’re sure,” Shiro said. “I know a place. I think you’ll like it.”

Keith followed Shiro out the glass door to the library cafeteria, not missing how Shiro’s eyes slipped down towards the case clutched in his – not sweaty – hand, as he held the door open for him.

“So, your first year here, huh?” Shiro mused as they walked, hands tucked back into his trousers – gym pants, really. Keith hummed, a toneless sound of agreement. “How are you finding it?”

“Better, now that I get to pick what I learn,” Keith said dryly. Shiro chuckled, a bright peal in the crisp air.

“And what are you learning?”

“Mechanical engineering.”

They reached a building that Keith was unfamiliar with – not surprising, really – and Shiro started up the stairs. “Where are we going?” Keith asked, yet still unfailingly trailing behind him.

Shiro winked, and Keith almost stumbled on a step. “Secret,” he said, but grinned a second later. “It’s a secret café,” he amended. “You have to promise you won’t show anyone else.”

_Who else would I tell?_ Keith grumbled to himself as they hit the third flight of stairs, Shiro still marching upwards with boundless energy, but all that came out was a slightly winded, “Fine.”

They reached the final landing, which opened out into open air, weathered tiles with padded red benches dotting the rooftop space. It overlooked the quadrangle, Keith realised, and treading over to the edge, he stared out, glimpsing the tiny little figures that was morning rush of students heading to class.

“You like it?”

Keith started, spinning back around to face Shiro. “Yeah,” he said. “’S’nice up here. Better than the library café.”

Shiro smirked. “I thought you might say that,” he said lightly. “I know it gets crowded in there this time in the morning.”

Nodding, Keith slid into one of the booths closest to the edge. He put his case down gently, slipping it underneath the bench.

Shiro wasn’t sitting. Keith looked up, squinting, and then shading his eyes against the sun directly behind Shiro’s head. Right, rooftop café.

“Let me get you something,” Shiro was saying. “Maybe not another coffee. Hot chocolate?”

“You don’t need to,” Keith said, perplexed. Shiro sounded so warm; like there weren’t years of silence between them that plucked at the frayed strings of Keith’s nerves.

“Okay, but I need my morning fix, so you get something too,” Shiro said firmly, and strode off towards the counter. Keith watched him go. It was like – being a young and stupid teenager all over again, Shiro generously sharing portions of his well-made homemade lunch, or worse, buying lunch for him at the canteen. His gut twisted with the familiarity.

Shiro returned, balancing a carry tray with two cups on his right hand and holding a muffin in his left. Setting the tray down, he popped one of the cups out and placed it in front of Keith. “There you go.”

Keith kicked his ankles together awkwardly under the table. “Thank you,” he muttered, squirming with embarrassment. He jammed the opening of the cup to his mouth hurriedly, taking a sip of – something gooey and sweet. “Oh!”

Keith stared at Shiro incredulously. “Really?” he said. “A marshmallow?”

Shiro winked conspiratorially. “I thought you could use the treat,” he said. “Welcome to university.”

Keith swallowed. “About that…”

He trailed off, not really knowing how to broach the subject. Shiro was gazing at him expectantly, but the look was somehow patient rather than irritable.

Keith gave in, scratching at the burning itch tickling at his throat. “Why are you here?” he burst out. It was sharp and angrier than he meant it to sound, and he could see it in the way Shiro blinked, leaning back, his eyebrows drawing together.

Too late to take back, Keith forged on. “Ever since you graduated,” he continued doggedly, “You stopped writing back. And then there was nothing. I haven’t heard from you in four years, Shiro.”

His hand was curled tightly around the paper cup; he willed stiff fingers to unclench before he broke through. He kept his eyes fixed on the cup, not looking at Shiro. His jaw ached where his molars grit and ground against each other.

“And then I see you here,” he said. “You had an offer from the Oriande Conservatorium. You’re meant to be there. But you’re here, instead, just acting like – like everything’s normal.”

Keith pressed his lips in a tight line, not trusting his voice any further.

He heard Shiro heave a sigh.

“I did go to Oriande, Keith,” Shiro said quietly. “I was there for a year. And I decided it – it wasn’t for me, so I moved back. And now I’m here. Studying something else, something new.”

Keith stared resolutely at his cup, the paper crumpling pathetically in his hand. He didn’t believe it. Shiro was lying.

Shiro, the first chair in their high school’s symphony orchestra, the best violinist he had ever heard, one of the few talented enough to receive a prestigious offer to the most celebrated music conservatory in the country – leaving to come back to Altea, to study _something else_? To study _what_?

“I’m sorry I didn’t stay in contact,” Shiro said, and there really was something like regret tinging his voice, something honest Keith wanted to hold onto before it flowed away like sand through his fingertips. “I was all in my head for a while. I didn’t really talk to anyone. Coming to Altea, though…it was like a clean break, a fresh start.” He leaned his head forward, his eyes dark and earnest. “And, if it’s worth anything to you, Keith, I’m glad to see you again, too.”

Keith looked away. Shiro looked so good and so real; the seed of bitterness at his disappearance that had planted itself in Keith’s heart was slowly being weeded away by the way Shiro smiled, painfully happily, at him.

“It is,” he said, staring at the planters that lined the balcony that they sat at. “Worth something, I mean. To me.”

Keith mechanically lifted the cup to his lips to drown out the mortification that the sound of his own voice gave him. Sweetness bloomed across his tongue.

Shiro huffed a short laugh, but it didn’t sound like he was laughing at Keith.

“So, mechanical engineering.”

Keith finally dragged his gaze back to Shiro, who was gazing calmly back at him, something warm in his eyes. “Yeah?” he cracked the word out.

“I thought…I guess I expected music. Since you’ve got your violin there.”

Keith blinked. “Oh.” He hesitated. “That’s…”

“I was sure you’d get an offer from Oriande too,” Shiro was saying. “I remember. You had so much potential. Talent and drive in spades. With a little more discipline…”

“I stopped playing a year after you graduated,” Keith interrupted. He didn’t want to go down this path – all of the bright things that Shiro had in his mind about how great Keith would be – he’d bring that crashing down so Shiro couldn’t build him up any further.

“…Ah.” Keith couldn’t decipher the tone of Shiro’s voice. Was he disappointed? Upset, perhaps, that all his hard work getting Keith into the orchestra was wasted?

“But you’ve picked it up again?” Shiro said.

“Yeah,” Keith said. “There’s a student orchestra that I’ve joined. Practice is on later today. That’s why I’ve got this,” he jerked his thumb down towards the ground, “With me.”

“I’m glad you decided to come back to it,” Shiro said firmly. “Anyone who saw you could see how much you enjoyed playing.”

There it was again; Keith trying to hold onto lingering notes of resentment, and Shiro sailing right through his defences, singing out no-good words that couched themselves discomfortingly beneath his skin. He shifted uncomfortably under the praise, eager to change the topic.

“The society is looking for more members,” Keith blurted out. He remembered Pidge’s text, just earlier in the morning. “Especially for a violinist. The society – we need one more person to be able to stay as an official group.” 

Shiro was a violinist – his dream was to become a concert violinist, playing in concert halls and beautiful venues all around the world. But he loved playing as part of an ensemble as well; loved the dialogue and conversation that came with working together as a team.

“And – we’d have a string quintet,” Keith added, because hadn’t Shiro been the one continually trying to get him play along? – but Shiro was already shaking his head _no_.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro was saying, and his voice was tinged with a note of something Keith couldn’t understand. “It’s just…not really my thing anymore.”

“But – ” Keith started, but Shiro was already standing up, tipping the last of his coffee into his mouth, twisting out of the nook and away from Keith. His profile cut a sharp figure in the morning light.

“Sorry,” Shiro said, “I’ve got class. See you around, Keith.”

Then, he was gone, flashing an almost-there smile before turning and leaving. Somehow, the sunlight felt colder.

*

The practice room wasn’t really a practice room; it was a little tutorial room cleverly pretending to be a conference room pretending to be something appropriate for playing music in. It wasn’t the Lighthouse Chamber and it didn’t have any of the echoing, majestic atmosphere of that hall, but it was homely enough, with a modern looking interior – strangely anachronistic to the sandstone castle-like walls that Keith knew formed the exterior of the building.

“There you are,” Allura said as he walked through the doorway. She was setting out the last of five chairs, four in a loose, wide semi-circle, and one at the head, facing towards the rest. Four battered, worn old music stands were perched in front of the chairs.

Pidge, Hunk, and Lance were already inside – no way to get lost, Keith supposed, when the room was located in the Student Services building, in the centremost of the university. “Any luck?”

Keith’s mood darkened, thinking back to Shiro’s strange behaviour earlier that morning. He shook his head mutely. Shiro was the only person he’d known, or had known comfortably enough to ask him to join a music society on a whim. Who else would he ask?

Allura pursed her lips, and Keith tensed, ready for – what, he didn’t know exactly, some kind of didactic lecture or disappointed murmur – but nothing like that came. “Let’s keep trying, Keith,” Allura said instead, and Keith swallowed down a hardly formed response that had automatically started building in his throat.

Hunk waved at Keith with his bow as he shrugged his bag and case onto the ground; he was already settling himself down on his chair – third from the left – as Keith crouched down to unzip his case. Lance brushed past him to take a seat to Hunk’s right, a whispered, “Hey, Mullet,” in greeting as Keith’s face twisted into a half scowl in instinctive response.

“Over here,” Pidge said, patting at the left-most seat as she took her place.

Keith grunted. “Just a moment,” he muttered, running rosin over his bow in short, sharp strokes. He took his seat a moment later, marginally pleased that the seating arrangement took him as far away from Lance as possible.

Allura passed slips of paper around onto the music stands before them – printed on thin, barely opaque paper, the type afforded to university students – and Keith squinted at the score. Albrecht-something, a name he didn’t recognise, a piece he hadn’t heard of before. With his violin tucked securely under his chin, Keith shuffled through the papers, brows drawn together in a slight furrow.

“Alright, everyone,” Allura said. She was settling comfortably into her seat at the head of their little cluster of sad looking stands and chairs. “This is a string quartet for violin, viola, and two cellos – and an excellent piece to test the waters of our new ensemble. What do you think?”

After flipping through the pages, Keith wasn’t impressed, personally – but he kept his lips sealed. Furthest away from him, Lance was beaming at Allura: “I bet the piece is _perfect_ – ” he started saying, but stopped as Hunk dropped his sheet music onto Lance’s stand and snagged his pages instead.

“Hey – what are you doing?!” Lance exclaimed, indignant.

“Swapping parts with you,” Hunk said, and even Keith could see the embarrassed hunch of his shoulders. “I know, I know! I just – I’ve never played in a group smaller than _fifty_ before and the second cello looks easier, so it’ll just work out better this way. Alright?”

“Hunk, there’s no need to be nervous,” Allura raised her hands placatingly. “This is just practice, after all, and a piece you haven’t played before. No one will be upset if you make a mistake – ”

“Actually,” Pidge interrupted, “Since we’re all sight reading this for the first time, it’s more like _‘when_ we make a mistake – ’”

“Can we just play?” Keith cut in impatiently, voice scraping like harsh gravel across cement. Four faces turned towards him, and he gritted his teeth at the attention. He had been skimming the sheet music over and over as they bickered, fingers twitching in an approximation of the fingering on his forearm. That one evening in the lighthouse hall, after four years of putting aside his violin, had been enough to re-stoke his fire for playing, and anticipation was burning in his gut; he wanted to put his bow to strings _now_.

“Alright, alright,” Lance said. He shifted his feet, readying his bow. Hunk did the same, and next to Keith, Pidge unfurled her viola, letting it sit under her chin. All three looked at Keith expectantly – four, with Allura included – and Keith swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

Right. He was leading. He could do this.

He stared very hard at the sheet music in front of him – then, taking a sharp inward breath, Keith raised his bow, decisively bowing the first note.

A scatter of sound followed him; uncoordinated even to an untrained ear. The discordant sound made Keith hesitate on the second note – he hit it a whisper of a beat too late.

“Keith!” Lance’s voice rang out shrilly as he stopped completely. “I could barely tell you were starting!”

“I gave you plenty of notice!” Keith barked back, reluctantly coming to a stop as well. “Didn’t you see me lift my bow?”

“I guess it could probably have been a bit more obvious?” Hunk said. “I mean, since it’s our first time playing together, it’s probably a good idea to be more exaggerated, right?”

“Right,” Keith bit out, frustrated. “Just follow my lead.”

Agitated, he straightened himself. “From the top,” he said, as if they’d made it past the first bar.

Keith raised his bow again – and this time, the first note sounded together, a little weak and shaky, but in time.

The piece was something from the classical era, Keith realised, something easy and gentle and _adagio_ , not at all fast or exciting or even dynamically interesting. As he navigated a semiquaver run, he accelerated slightly on the run upwards, _accelerando_ naturally following the contour of the music.

Next to him, Pidge stuttered on her part in surprise; the grounding tones of the cellos lagged behind half a beat.

“Augh, Keith!” Lance groaned.

“What!” Keith snapped. He pulled away from his violin, knuckles flexing white against the wood of his bow.

“Keith, perhaps it would be better to try tempo changes after the first play through,” Allura gently broke in.

“Or maybe,” Lance said, “Maybe you can conduct us, Allura, and that way we can look at _you_ instead of Keith’s pasty face instead?”

Keith narrowed his eyes.

“No, no,” Allura sighed. “There are no conductors in chamber music, so you’d best not use me as a crutch.” She looked to each of them, something intense in her eyes. “A chamber ensemble is a team. You have to work together in sync, you must work _with each other_ while you are playing.”

“Yeah, so,” Keith ground out, his voice remarkably even, “All you have to do is watch. Just – follow what I’m playing.” He readied himself again, holding his bow aloft, but Lance made no move towards his instrument.

“God, you’re so – ” Lance cut himself off, screwing his face up. “You’re so shit at being a leader. You know, you remember Shiro? Shiro would have been _so_ much better than y – ”

Something screeched harshly against the floor – dimly, Keith realised it was the legs of his chair, rocketing back as he surged to his feet.

He didn’t have the words, but a choked noise nonetheless crawled out of his throat. Keith stumbled back, whirling on his heel and storming down the room, out of the door and into the hallway. He kicked the door shut, forcing his fingers to loosen their harsh grip around the fingerboard of the violin.

He stood like that for what was probably minutes before the door creaked open again, Hunk’s bright yellow shirt coming into view as he opened and closed the door behind him patiently.

“Hey, man…” Hunk said. “Look, Lance didn’t mean what he said – ”

“No,” Keith interrupted him, sinking into the wall, his voice rough. “It’s fine. I get it. I’m no good at this. I shouldn’t have – I shouldn’t have bothered signing up for this, this society. It was a stupid idea.”

He could feel Hunk’s gaze on him, whatever he had meant to say knocked off-beat. Keith’s teeth clicked together as his jaw clenched.

“Look,” Hunk said after a moment’s pause, “I think…I mean, none of us are good at this, you know?” He spread his hands helplessly. “We’re all used to playing in an orchestra. And – and I bet Shiro _would_ be good at leading a group like us, but that’s just because he’s _Shiro_ – it doesn’t mean anything, cause I’ve heard you play before, back in the Garrison days, and you’re _good_ , like, _really_ good. But I guess playing in a small team like this is different. And what I’m saying is, none of us are really used to it, so we should just – practise it out.”

Keith blew a breath out, a sharp gust of wind.

“Yeah. I guess,” he muttered. He pushed off the wall, the violin awkwardly clasped in his hands.

“Come on,” Hunk urged. “Let’s get back inside.”

Another breath. Keith steeled himself as Hunk edged the door open again.

“Yeah. Alright.”

*

The call came in the evening, not late, but Keith was already drowsing off in bed. He jolted at the buzz on his pillow, blinking blearily as bright light spilled across his face.

“Hello?” he grumbled out, fumbling the receiver to his ear.

“Hello. Keith?” Keith immediately recognised that polished tone, even though it sounded tinny, pushed through a single tiny hole at the bottom of his shitty, budget handset.

He sat up a bit, cradling his phone between his ear and shoulder.

“Allura? What is it?”

Keith heard a quiet, musical hum through the phone, and then Allura spoke: “I’m sorry about the late hour, Keith. I’ve only just gotten home myself.”

“Mmm.” Keith let the phone drop to his chest, fiddling for a moment to turn the speaker on. “What’s up?”

There was a loud shuffle from Allura’s end, blowing out the speaker. “Sorry,” she said. “I thought – I just thought it would be good to speak to you about what happened today.”

Keith groaned, rolling over. The phone slipped off his chest, bouncing onto the bed. “What’s there to talk about?” he muttered.

A soft sigh from the other end crackled out through Keith’s phone. “After you left, Hunk spoke to me about your school orchestra. About Shiro, as well. And, Keith...”

“I asked him to join,” Keith said. He didn’t need Allura’s words of consolation, or pity, or misguided attempts to make him feel better about his own shortcomings. “And he said no. I know. You deserve someone who’s better at leading than me. A real concertmaster. That’s what Shiro was. But he said no. So. I’m sorry.”

“Keith, that’s...” Allura trailed off. “Keith, I know about Shiro already.”

Keith sat up again. “What?”

“I studied my Bachelor’s at Oriande,” Allura explained. “I met him once, there. I heard that he’d left, as well. And after I finished up at Oriande, I decided to come to Altea. It was my father’s alma mater, so I’ve always wanted to study here.”

Like this, in the darkness, Keith didn’t need to think, didn’t need to hold his expression steady or keep his brows drawn evenly across his forehead; he let the sound of Allura’s honey-soft musical voice wash over him, eyes lidded and face lax.

“Keith,” Allura said, “I – I didn’t know that Shiro was also attending Altea. But it isn’t your fault that he does not want to join. He must have had his own reasons for leaving Oriande and coming here.”

Something awful hooked at Keith’s heartstrings, a sharp burn that plucked and tugged painfully behind his ribcage

“I just don’t get it,” Keith said dully. “He’s always been – he was the one that encouraged me to join the orchestra, back then.”

He paused, hoping that Allura would cut back in, take over from the way his voice faded out, ending on an uptick, wanting to say more, talk his heart out, but not sure how.

The truth was, Shiro was Keith’s first – and only – friend, the only person with the patience to befriend a new and prickly transfer student, still fresh from loss and his first foster home; and the only person focused enough to needle and goad and drag him into a world of strings and music.

Allura’s hum crackled through the receiver. She didn’t say anything further.

Keith blew his breath out. He forged on bravely; someone needed to understand, to hear about Shiro – _he_ needed to find the words to explain his frustration. “Shiro, he – even when I was shit at following directions. Even when I was going to quit. He really believed in me. So I don’t know why, why he’s...”

An angry sound tore out of Keith’s throat. “I just don’t get it,” he finished lamely. Allura was quiet on the other end, then –

“It sounds like you were close,” she said softly.

Keith snorted a derisive laugh.

“If it wasn’t for him, I’d never have picked up the violin seriously,” he said lowly, “And I’d never have been around to quit, after he – just cut contact, a year after graduating.”

Again, another pause, like a _fermata_ at the end of a phrase. Keith could hear Allura moving, the soft murmur of what must have been classical radio in the background. A few sparkling notes of piano broke through the poor-quality phone speaker.

“I don’t know Shiro like you do,” Allura said finally. “But from what I _do_ know of him, I think – I’m sure he wouldn’t stop playing, or fall out like that for no reason. I think you should speak to him – ”

At this, Keith coughed up a protest, something in the shape of _I’ve already tried_ , and _Why don’t you?_ but Allura kept talking, drowning his words out: “It takes more than a few words out of a chance meeting to make someone talk, really _talk_ , Keith,” she said. “So you’d better just keep practising.”

*

And practise, Keith did. It wasn’t the type of practice he suspected Allura had been alluding to, but he attacked it in the same way he approached most things – wholeheartedly and determined, fumbling through foggy fingerings of scales and arpeggios, angling his bow again and again against scratchy string crossings – so wrapped up in his post-critique of his wobbly rendition of _Zigeunerweisen_ that the sound of knuckles against the practice room door barely registered as a metallic thud in his brain.

Keith swam out of his haze, limbs slightly askew, as a familiar-but-not head of white and black poked in through the door, a metallic – _metallic,_ the source of that sound – hand resting against the narrow, flat plane of wood.

Shiro must have seen the direction of Keith’s gaze – he snatched his hand from the door like it was a hot brand against his skin, but Keith had already seen, and –

– he wondered how he could have missed it, the prosthetic of shiny and smooth silver, but as Keith’s mind groped back towards that morning on the rooftop, all he could see was Shiro’s hands, deceptively casual in his pockets; Shiro, angling his profile towards him. 

There was molten shock, yes, Keith thought numbly, as Shiro hesitated in the threshold of the room, but also relief – relief, and something to work towards.

He spoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I PROMISE there will be more Shiro in the next chapter omg
> 
> Music referenced in this chapter:  
> 
> 
> *   
>  [Albrechtsberger's String Quartet Op 20 No 5](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BfNyeIeXNBs&ab_channel=rossinirostock)  
> 
>   
> 
> *   
>  [Sarasate's Zigeunerweisen](https://youtu.be/wEmbFSiJzEQ?t=107)  
> 
> 
> come talk to me about classical music, sheith, or anything else on twitter <3
> 
> [tumblr](https://morthael.tumblr.com/) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/anuveon)


	3. Chapter 3

Shiro hadn’t meant to knock on the practice room door.

The Student Services office was a flight of stairs and a floor away, but Shiro strayed, drawn inexorably by the rich, if muted sounds of bow on strings. It was at the door that he stopped, metal palm pressed to the wooden surface, listening to the unsteady, unpractised lilt, all scratchy hesitance but charming in its own way. He stopped because it sounded like a secret thing, a fumbling melody that shyly persisted nonetheless, and he hated the idea of interrupting, intruding on a sound as pure as that. He’d hated people watching him practise as a child; he could give this little privacy at the least.

When the music stopped though, a rolling sigh off the last phrase into silence, it was nothing for Shiro to raise his arm and knock, pushing the door open and gliding in.

Keith stood in the centre of the room, arms slightly askew, his eyes glued on the manuscript propped on his stand. The afternoon light streaming through the floor-length picture windows bathed him in a wash of faded orange; his dark eyes were intense against the backdrop of the light.

As Shiro lingered in the doorway, those eyes drifted slowly to him, a touch dazed. A fog of music was still heavy on him, but dissipating increment by increment. Shiro could see it in the way Keith’s eyes widened, darting to his prosthetic and then staying there.

“Shiro,” Keith said, pained, “What – what…happened?”

Shiro let out a breath, softly.

Keith would have found out eventually; the prosthetic was hardly subtle, even with his sleeves rolled down, and it had been a mixture of luck, careful positioning, and the fact that Keith was more distracted staring at the stripe of white on his hair and scar on his nose that his false arm hadn’t been noticed already.

He supposed he’d been clinging onto the last scraps of normalcy with Keith.

Keith’s eyes were still wide, staring. Shiro self-consciously rolled his sleeve further down, and at that, he could almost hear the way Keith ripped his gaze away, generously giving him space. He’d always been able to read Shiro keenly.

“It’s a long story,” Shiro said, tone going for light and landing somewhere a half-beat off. From the way Keith’s eyebrows knitted together, he knew he’d fallen desperately short. “But that’s not important. Was that _Zigeunerweisen_ I heard?”

The words were a diversion tactic and both of them knew it. Still, Keith rolled with it, ever considerate even though he was clearly holding his tongue.

“Not a very good version of it,” Keith said. His eyes passed over Shiro intensely once more, flickering downwards before jerking back to his music stand.

“Can I listen?” Shiro asked. A strange look flickered over Keith’s face: “It’s fine if you’d prefer me not to,” he added quickly. He watched Keith hesitate, but making a decision in that split second.

“No,” he said. “No. You can stay.” He raised his instrument again. “It’s been a while since I played for anyone. I should get in the habit of it again, for – the orchestra.”

Shiro couldn’t help but smile, sliding into a nearby chair, leaning forward across the hard plastic back of the seat in front of him as Keith flicked the pages back to the start and raised his bow.

There was no hesitation to the start – just a small, sharp inhale, and then he was playing.

The first few mournful notes rang out across the room, and Keith could say that he was unpractised and rusty until he was blue in the face, but there was no mistaking the way he made his violin sing, each stroke of the bow filled with gravitas. Leaping off each fermata impatiently, he navigated the first run in a rush, left hand flickering across the fingerboard to catch up. The intonation suffered a little, but he held on, pushing through.

Keith played like Shiro remembered – tight-shouldered but quick to action and with passion, not always technically secure but with an obvious magnetism to his playing nonetheless. It was infectious, Keith’s musicality was infectious; a driving, relentless torrent of sound. It was what had drawn Shiro to him. 

And it was something that would have held back an invitation to Oriande with Keith’s name on it. He was all brash fire, a little reckless, a little sloppy. He steamed through the _moderato,_ barely giving way to _lento_ and then even more _lento_ again, perking up notably in _allegro molto vivace_ and hanging on with determined grit, the speed he’d chosen overtaking him. The harmonics were a touch sharp, the left hand pizz uneven – though, parts of the section looked almost sight-read by the way Keith hunched forward, squinting at the pages.

He came to the end with hardly the glorious flourish that was called for, his head bowed and tension sparking across his shoulders. The silence seemed to fill the room with its weight.

Shiro slowly uncurled himself from the chair, his heart racing as an echo of the final double stop seemed to reverberate around in his mind.

Keith blew out a breath. “That was bad, wasn’t it.” His shoulders were still so tight. They made Shiro’s ache in corresponding sympathy. He wanted to push them down.

“Keith – no.” Shiro surged to his feet. “You’re wrong.”

Keith looked sceptically, tapping the sheet music with his bow. “There were so many wrong notes. My intonation – ”

“It’s not about the wrong notes,” Shiro burst out. “That comes with time and practice. You know that.” He moved forward and Keith looked up sharply, tensing further. Shiro groaned to himself.

“Just…” He could see Keith narrowing his eyes, ready to accept whatever criticism Shiro would dole out. “Just…relax your shoulders a bit, okay?”

Keith’s mouth dropped open. It would be almost cute if he wasn’t holding himself as taut as the strings on his violin.

“Drop your shoulders,” Shiro repeated. He reached out, his normal hand on Keith’s right shoulder. “You’re all knotted up here. And in your wrist. It’s affecting your bowing.”

Keith’s shoulder was warm against his palm, even through his shirt. Shiro felt the tiniest shiver ripple through as he let go, and then Keith closed his eyes and forcefully shunted his shoulders down, tension ebbing away in inches.

“The _lento_ sections,” Shiro said when Keith looked wonderfully relaxed. “You sped up when you played through them.”

Keith scowled, and he was taller and his face was longer but there was that same petulant expression accompanying the same old advice. His eyes were still closed.

“They’re not as interesting,” he said.

Shiro hid a smile. “What, not as interesting as the last section?”

Keith’s eyes flickered open. “You _know_ what I think,” he muttered.

There was an ebb and flow to music; quiet, unadorned moments that bled into passionate, strident passages. “Try to take the time to appreciate the slow parts,” Shiro said. “So that you don’t eclipse the climax of the whole piece.”

Keith sighed.

“It’s about keeping part of yourself in reserve,” he added. “The small moments make the big moments bigger.” 

“I know,” Keith said. “I get it. I’m not patient enough.” He was still following Shiro’s instructions, though, controlling his breathing and keeping his arms and shoulders loose. The next words threw Shiro: “Why don’t you show me?”

And then Keith was holding out his violin trustingly, his eyes trained on Shiro’s without an ounce of hesitance. 

“I – I can’t,” Shiro stammered automatically, hands flying upwards to refuse. Keith’s gaze slid to his metal hand for a moment before snapping back guiltily.

“I’ve seen you hold food in that hand. You can hold the bow, can’t you?” he said, pleadingly. Heart sinking, Shiro nodded jerkily.

“Yes, but – ”

“You don’t really need an amazing range of motion for the bow,” Keith interrupted quickly. “Please – Shiro, you can. I want you to.” He continued forward into Shiro’s space, pressing the violin into Shiro’s hand, leaving him without an option but to close his fingers around the fingerboard lest he drop the damn instrument. Then, Keith reached forward with his now free hand, cinching around Shiro’s metal wrist and tugging it forward, pushing the bow gently into his grasp. He was so close that Shiro could see the faint red mark just below his chin.

“Keith,” Shiro said shakily. “I can’t. My arm – it doesn’t – it’s not the same.”

“Relax your shoulders,” Keith said, and the tiny glint of a smile sent a whoosh of nerves through Shiro’s belly. He raised Keith’s violin, slotting it under his chin automatically, even as his other arm stayed wooden by his side.

Keith’s chin rest was still warm to the touch, the violin a brighter, redder wood than the deep, mature brown of the one he had played. It was played in, a light dusting of rosin on the strings and fingerboard, two fine tuners at the tailpiece.

Shiro’s hand closed around the strings, nostalgia and regret washing over him in waves; he felt Keith’s solemn gaze, almost a head shorter than him and tilted up at this distance to see but no less intense for it, his chin cut at a defiant angle, framed by messy bangs that he brushed aside impatiently, intolerant of anything that impeded his single-track focus.

Shiro sighed expansively, folding the violin away from his chin and holding it back out to Keith. He looked crestfallen, accepting it back, holding it to his chest. Shiro ached to reach out, comfort him – but he stayed stiff. He was the source of that discomfort.

“Meet me at the Lighthouse tonight at six,” Shiro said instead, and because he was weak, he did reach forward, touching Keith at the slope of his shoulder and neck.

Keith was good; he was everything he missed about playing. He deserved more than the miserable scraps that Shiro had left around him. He deserved the truth, the whole truth, and then finally, perhaps, he could put this one thing to rest at last.

*

At six o’clock sharp, Keith was travelling along the gravelly path to the Lighthouse Chamber. The sun was already sinking below the horizon, errant rays still bathing the bright walls of the Lighthouse in warm light, but the evening wind had started to pick up, whistling at the elevation as it ghosted through its open windows. Keith wrapped his arms around himself. His classes had finished hours earlier; he hadn’t expected to be staying out late. Again.

A tall figure was already waiting at the outside of the building, leaning against it casually. Keith recognised the shock of white hair at once – and after getting past his initial surprise, he supposed, the white really wasn’t that hard on the eyes. Shiro had a black leather jacket on, long sleeves, long enough to almost drape past his fingertips.

“Shiro,” Keith said, trotting up to him. Shiro flashed a small smile, his teeth a white glint in the paling twilight. His earlier traces of panic were gone – or merely muted, Keith didn’t know.

“Follow me,” Shiro said, and ducked inside the door to the Lighthouse, holding it open for Keith to follow.

The chamber hall was empty – no chairs gathered, this time around, and the lid of the Steinway on the stage closed. Shiro’s footfalls were a muffled thump on the echoey timber floor – the rubber on the soles of his boots cushioning the impact. Keith’s shoes were a scratchy rasp in comparison.

Head down, staring at Shiro’s shoes, Keith didn’t realise they were walking away from the stage and towards the back of the hall until he almost bumped into him. He’d stopped suddenly.

“Shiro – ? What are we doing?” he asked.

They were stopped at the far reaches of the hall, where a single staircase spiralled upwards, locked behind a heavy iron grate. Even in the gloom, Keith could see the steps were rough-hewn, brutalist slabs of concrete not well-travelled by.

Shiro fished around in his pockets, bicep flexing unfairly before he brought out a ring of keys; old and iron, just like that gate. The keys jangled triumphantly in his grasp and Shiro snuck another little smirk to Keith. The rare type of mischievous smirk.

The gate creaked open with a vaguely ominous sort of whine.

“Come on,” Shiro said, jogging up the first step.

“Are we supposed to be here? How did you get those keys?” Keith was already following, climbing steadily behind him.

The stairs curved up and up, Shiro’s light footsteps whispering up the concrete steps and a soft, warm laugh his only reply.

Keith was fairly winded by the time they reached the top; the stairs opened out into a rough, open platform, pathed in a circle and hollow in the middle. The actual lighthouse, Keith realised – the broad, domed roof and hollow inner circle housed the massive light that could cast beams into the darkness, nestled in a rusted metal grill and dark, for now. The rest of the room was framed by glass windows, curving high into the dome of the ceiling.

Shiro opened one, the door sliding open and giving access to a narrow balcony. Wind ripped through the narrow aperture with a shriek, blowing it further open with a gust that almost shook Keith’s footing.

“Whoa, careful there,” Shiro said, and fixed the door in place with a heavy brick that had been on the ground, probably just for that purpose. “Come on out, it’s a great view out here.”

Keith inched towards the open air, making a face as the wind blew through the arm holes of his shirt, thoroughly chilled. It _was_ a nice view though, the balcony opening up into the university lawn and beyond. So high up, and with everything dropped away, the world seemed like a muted bubble.

“Oh, god – sorry,” Shiro said, and when Keith turned to him, Shiro was looking down at him with his brow crinkled in concern. “You must be freezing. Here!” 

Keith froze as Shiro shrugged off his jacket, fingers tangled in the sleeves momentarily before he heaved them off, at Keith’s side in one easy step and flinging it over his stiff shoulders. The inside of the jacket was this soft, fuzzy material that was warm to the touch; preserved heat, from Shiro’s body.

“ _Shiro_ ,” Keith started, but Shiro shushed him with a solid pat to the shoulder, his too-kind eyes crinkling as he smiled down at him.

“Hey, it’s alright,” he said. “I’ve got long sleeves, you don’t. And I’m the one who brought us up here, so. It’s only fair.”

If the jacket had been big on Shiro, it was positively overlarge on Keith, pooling around him in baggy waves.

“Fine,” Keith huffed, and pulled his arms through the sleeves to distract himself from the way Shiro’s hand rested on his shoulder, the way the jacket smelled so much like Shiro it was like he was face-first in his chest breathing him in… _not that he’d ever thought about_ that. Even if Shiro had filled in amazingly since he’d last seen him in high school, tall and broad and muscular but really still the same person underneath it all. Inexplicably, Keith felt heat rise in his cheeks; he fervently thanked the dim lighting in the chamber and looked away, off the balcony.

“So romantic, right?”

“Huh?”

Keith’s heartrate spiked, more heat flushing onto his face as he fought and lost a battle to keep his head turned away.

“I said, Romantic. That was always your favourite era to play, wasn’t it?”

“O-oh.” Keith swallowed, sure that his stupid face looked like it was on fire. “Yeah. More range. More emotion. Um, it’s cool.” _It’s cool_. He wanted to smack himself for being so fucking tongue-tied.

Shiro huffed out a small laugh, resting his arms against the balcony railing and leaning. “Yeah. Don’t tell Bach, but I feel the same.”

Keith felt a lifeline and took it. He scoffed, deceptively natural. “No way. I’ve heard your _Chaconne_. Who’s your favourite composer anyway?”

“Hmm. Tchaikovsky.”

The response was fast, like it was rehearsed. Keith stared at Shiro suspiciously, but there was no trace of guile on his face. Open and calm.

“And what about you?” Shiro asked. “Wait, let me guess. Hmm. Not Beethoven. Probably not Chopin.” He twisted around, gazing intently at Keith, who swallowed but kept his eyes level with Shiro’s. “Maybe Liszt? Virtuosic enough for you?”

Keith rolled his eyes. “I don’t care about that,” he said. “It’s Brahms.”

“Oh!” Shiro said. “Of course. That suits you.”

Keith kind of wanted to know what exactly made Shiro say that, but by the time he opened his mouth Shiro was gazing back out across the grounds again, lips pursed. The air suddenly felt stagnant, silent. The door let out a pathetic rattle against its brick stop and fell limp.

“Shiro?” he said quietly.

Shiro was silent for moments more, braced on the railing heavily.

“It happened almost a year after I started at Oriande,” he said finally, and the words carried, as low and timorous as they were. “A car accident. I wasn’t at fault, but reality doesn’t really care about that, you know. I lost my arm. I was in hospital for a month. The recovery…”

Shiro exhaled, the movement starting steady and then breaking off, uneven, shuddering out of him. “It wasn’t just that it was gone. I guess I could accept that. It was my whole life in front of me that evaporated in one split second. I wasn’t – I guess I wasn’t myself for a long time. I guess I’m still not.”

Keith hesitantly stepped closer, and before he could change his mind, reached out to grasp Shiro’s shoulder, channelling as much firm warmth as he could into the movement. Shiro started under his hand, his eyes wildly dragged away from that unfathomable point in the distance.

“You are, Shiro,” he said fiercely, “You’re still you. You’re anything you put your mind to. You’ve told me that before.”

Shiro managed a wan smile, and uncurled a little, straightening. Keith followed him, his arm tugged upwards to the new height but stubbornly holding on, and a second later, metal digits ghosted over his fingertips, barely a brush but still startlingly cold.

“I got this soon after,” Shiro said, the tip of his cold finger stroking past Keith’s knuckle. He shivered. “It took – oh, months. It’s high tech, I can move the fingers and there’s even feedback. But it took months before I could even pick up a paper cup without crumpling it. Before I could hold a fork or a knife steady. Still trying to get the hang of chopsticks again.”

Keith reached up, clasping the Shiro’s palm in his fingers despite the shock of cold, squeezing, as daring as he could be. Shiro’s hand instinctively loosened; Keith chased it, not letting go.

“I still haven’t got the hang of chopsticks,” he confessed, and delighted in the small smile that curved Shiro’s lips, however bittersweet it was.

By now, the sun had fully set, the only reminder of its existence the few fading beams that struggled to glance across the horizon.

A tiny frown wormed its way onto Keith’s face. He didn’t want to ruin the moment, but. “We should get inside,” he said reluctantly. “You’ll catch a cold without, um – this.” His free hand tugged meaningfully on the huge jacket. 

“Yeah.”

They went back inside, Shiro letting go of him to kick the brick out from the door, hands braced against the glass so that it closed with the barest whisper of noise. He clicked the latch shut as Keith flexed his fingers, rubbing at them to bring circulation back into them.

“Shiro?” Keith said while Shiro’s back was still turned.

“Yeah?”

“You can hold a bow.”

The words came so bluntly he internally winced. He was too busy gathering his courage, his persuasion, to work to soften the blow. But as Shiro turned around from the door, the look on his face wasn’t panic, but resignation.

“Yes. Physically, probably.”

“Then why – ”

Shiro shoved his hands into his pockets, an angrily hunched position. “I can’t. Every time I think about playing again, I freeze up. I think for a moment that maybe I can do it, play like I could before. Then it hits me that I’m different, it feels wrong, that I’ll never reach that level again. And I think of how long it’s been, and that’s just a whole different thing to overcome. It’s too hard.”

Keith was silent. What could he say? There was more here than he could untangle. And he was barely capable of keeping a conversation thread from tangling up himself on the best of his days. He stared at his feet.

Shiro’s voice cracked. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. That was a lot. I know that was a lot. I – ”

“Shiro,” Keith pleaded. Shiro fell quiet.

Keith breached the scant steps between them and threw his arms around Shiro’s shoulders. “Even if it’s too hard, you have to keep trying, right?” he said, muffled into Shiro’s chest. “You can’t give up. Not on yourself.”

Shiro’s arms tightened around him and he heard the slight chuckle, just a puff of air breezing past his ear melodiously. “Throwing back my words at me?”

An answering smile tugged on Keith’s lips. “You’ve given me some good advice,” he said.

All too soon, Shiro drew back, holding him by the shoulders. His right arm felt heavy, hard, but it wasn’t chill with the biting wind anymore.

“You really want me to join your orchestra that much?” he said, smiling now. “That’s a lot of work to recruit just one guy.”

Keith’s eyes slid away. Well – he’d wanted Shiro to come back and play for himself, but this, this too, he wanted. Needed?

He took a deep breath.

“I don’t think I can do it without you,” he said, the confession feeling like a shameful thing. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be a leader.”

“That’s not true,” Shiro said immediately. “You can do whatever you set your mind to – ”

He broke off, the hypocrisy of his words seemingly striking him. He shook his head, continuing. “I mean, I know what you’re capable of. I think you just need a push in the right direction.”

“The others – they probably all think I don’t care,” Keith muttered. “I do. I just…I’ve never led before. I’m no good at reading people.”

“You just need the practice,” Shiro said gently. He squeezed his shoulder. Inexplicably, Keith felt himself warm again, a not-quite-uncomfortable tingle in his spine. “You get better the more you play with others. You communicate. You figure them out.” He paused. “I mean, we all have experience following the conductor. Take that away, and you watch everyone else. Right?”

“I was watching _you_ ,” Keith said, face red. That was normal. The violin section followed the concertmaster. The words sounded dumb when he said it.

Shiro coughed. “Well, even better. You’ve got experience being in sync with another player. You can use that.”

An idea sparked and spluttered to life in Keith’s brain. “Let me practise with you,” he said. Demanded, even.

Shiro looked down at him, disbelieving.

“You said it,” Keith continued. “I need the practice, to be able to lead. And you’ll start playing again. It’s fair. It’s a good idea.”

“Keith, I don’t think…”

“I mean, we’ll match,” Keith said. He knew he was rambling on now, hoping that a torrent of words would sway Shiro where his decidedly unpersuasive tongue couldn’t. “Both of us, years out of practice. We’ll sound like a couple of screeching cats. It’ll be great.”

Shiro’s hands dropped from his shoulders and he tilted his face skywards, closing his eyes. Keith waited.

“You don’t sound like that at all,” Shiro said after the silence stretched a beat too long. “Your music sounds beautiful, Keith.”

*

The next week plodded on like a sonata’s second movement– dull and uninteresting, though interspersed with brief bright spots. Those spots, Keith realised, were the times he met up with the other members of the fledgling Altea Orchestra. He found himself – not quite fully relaxed, but with Shiro’s words playing on repeat in his brain, his bowing arm loosening, fingers moving slower, with intention.

His efforts showed in his ensemble-mates’ reactions – Allura and Hunk beamed as they rehearsed, Pidge stopped itching towards her metronome, and even Lance calmed. He could feel his eyes on him as he played through each measure.

Despite it all there was an underlying current of tension as census date approached. No one had had any luck with recruitment, and the weeks were closing down.

(“Well, even if we can’t keep the society, we can still all play together, can’t we?” Lance had said.

“We wouldn’t be able to book any rooms, or get any funding for events,” Allura had replied, a note of sadness in her voice. Without the university to tie them together, surely their tentative team would slowly drift apart.)

Keith zipped up his case before easing out of his crouch, slinging it over his shoulder. The others were packing away, too, practice done for the day. They were in the Lighthouse again, and Keith suspected Allura was taking as many opportunities to book the location as she could before the census date overtook them.

The back of the hall creaked open, and it could have been the wind but for the dull pad of well-soled boots on the floor. Keith whirled around – and, surely enough, there was Shiro, wearing a casual cotton button-down, arms covered and hands tucked deceptively nonchalantly into his pockets.

“Shiro?” Keith whispered, strangled hope rising fiercely in his chest like a hot flare.

“ _Shiro?_ ” parroted Lance next to him. His eyes were saucers, and Keith was certain he would have dropped his cello case but for the steadying hand he lent, shoving it back at his chest. “Oh, thanks.”

“Hey, everyone,” Shiro said warmly. “Oh, hey, squirt.”

“ _Hey_!” Pidge shook her fist, but grin on her face was telling.

“I’ve heard this society was looking for an extra member, so, I’m happy to offer myself if you’ll have me.”

Allura stepped forward, her eyes shining. “It is so good to see you again, Shiro,” she said.

Keith caught the way he froze for a bit. Shiro’s gaze flickered, away from Allura and landing on him for a brief second before flashing away again.

“I’ve…I won’t be able to join you in the ensemble, but if there’s anything I can do to help out, I’ll do it. I promise you I’m good at numbers, so if you’re accepting applications for a treasurer, or otherwise, you know, team cheerleader…”

“Wait, wait, wait, what?” Hunk said. “Can we backtrack for a second? Shiro? Why aren’t you – ”

Pidge elbowed him. “Doesn’t matter! We’ve got enough members now. This means we can stay as a team, right?”

“But – ”

“And it’ll be nice if Shiro decides to join us as a player,” she continued, turning to face Keith, eyes and voice dangerously sharp. “But we’ve got one fearless violinist here as our leader in the meantime, and I reckon we’re doing just fine right now.” She nodded decisively.

“I…” Keith swallowed, looking between Pidge and Shiro. He settled on looking at Shiro. “Shiro, you can – you can play, I know you can. We need two violins. If you wanted to, I’d give up first violin gladly to you.” _The team deserves someone better at this than me_ , was left guiltily unspoken.

“Keith, no,” Allura started, but Lance barged in front, knuckles gripping around his case’s handle and stepping halfway into Keith’s space.

“Is this about – wait, never mind,” Lance said, the words tripping over themselves as his brain probably tried to catch up with his mouth. “I think you’ve got it in your head that you’re awful at this. That’s. That’s…” He bit his lip. “Wrong. And I’m sorry for yelling at you before about it. Because you’re not like Shiro at all, and I guess we’re kinda used to following him from the Garrison. But neither are any of us, and if Shiro joins the ensemble, I – I don’t think that means you need to give up your place.”

Keith’s eyes darted to Shiro’s.

“Hey – hang on – Lance, was it? I didn’t say anything about joining the ensemb– ”

“ _When_ Shiro joins,” Keith interrupted, staring straight at him, “We’ll talk about what parts we want to play then.” His heart was beating fast, and he couldn’t quite bear to look at Lance’s open, honest face.

In the periphery, though, he could see Lance light up anyway. He fidgeted, uncomfortable with the grin directed his way.

“You guys can swap like Lance and Hunk do,” Pidge added dryly.

Shiro looked caught between all of their words; Keith wondered if he was regretting walking into the hall, into their little group.

“Stay,” he said softly, and Shiro snapped to him immediately. Keith closed the distance between them, reaching out and brushing his hand against unyielding metal beneath the material of his shirt. “Until you’re able to play. And then we’ll play again, together.”

*

Later, when they were leaving the Lighthouse all in separate directions, Shiro stopped Keith, his prosthetic hand lightly touching his shoulder. The fingers curled in with a curious whisper of sound and Keith stopped immediately, tilting his head back in question.

“Want to hang out?” Shiro asked. “At my place, I mean.”

“Sure, Shiro,” Keith said agreeably. “Where is it? I need to get my bike first.”

“It’s not far – I usually take a bus to get back, so…”

Shiro didn’t drive, Keith realised. But did he – ?

“Um,” he hedged. Shiro blinked at him. “Do you want, uh, to come with me on my motorbike?”

He still looked bemused. “You don’t have to, if you feel uncomfortable,” Keith added hastily.

A chuckle worked its way out of Shiro’s mouth, musical and soft. “Should’ve known you’d be a motorbike person, Keith.”

Keith stared at him. He opened his mouth. Closed it. “What exactly gave that impression?” he said, a tad crossly.

Shiro hummed thoughtfully, crossing his arms and tapping on his bicep with a finger. “I don’t know. It’s those bad boy vibes you throw out.”

Keith spluttered. “The _what_?” 

Shiro laughed as they started down the winding path to student car parking. Even an elbow in the side and Keith’s hot protests weren’t enough to dim the bright peals that echoed and echoed off the rows of sandstone they passed by.

Shiro’s laughter faded when they reached Keith’s bike, a beat up, rust-red Yamaha. Keith strapped on his helmet so Shiro wouldn’t see him worrying his lip between his teeth. Punched in Shiro’s address into his phone and fixed it into its bracket.

“Are you…you okay to ride?” he said when he couldn’t pretend to fiddle with his bike anymore.

“I’m fine,” Shiro said. “Here, let me take that.”

He plucked Keith’s violin case from his grasp, swinging it onto his back. He slung a tight, heavy leg over the seat. Smiled at Keith, somehow. “Come on.”

Keith rode slow and steady, making placid turns and patient to the traffic. For Shiro’s benefit, he reasoned, and it had nothing to do with the way Shiro was pressed chest to his back, hands cinching tight around Keith’s waist.

*

Shiro’s place was a quiet apartment on the top floor in a little boutique suite, a modern looking building painted a calm blue almost a suburb away from the university; not so close that his neighbours were all young uni students, and not so far away that Keith had to suffer overlong with Shiro clinging to his back.

When Keith stepped through the threshold, he found that the interior was equally modern-looking: hardwood waxed floor with a crisp, minimalist décor.

It was with a pointed cough that Keith remembered himself, sheepishly toeing his sneakers off and jamming his feet into the slightly large sandals that Shiro offered instead. One of Shiro’s hang ups, he remembered.

Keith padded around the apartment curiously. He had been to Shiro’s before, back when he still lived with his family, before he graduated and moved away. This apartment still retained characteristics of that old house, from the clean furniture to the very adult, colourful bowl of fresh fruit that stood in clear violation of the very ethos of a university student.

There _was_ one thing missing; the prominent glass cabinet that Keith remembered carrying the best of Shiro’s medals and trophies, hard-won from various eisteddfods and competitions. Along with the violin and stand that had dominated the living room in days passed by – it seemed curiously bare now.

“Keith?”

Keith shook his head, brushing the cobwebs out of his mind. Shiro had wandered off into the kitchenette, and was holding a kettle in his right hand. “Did you want something to drink? Tea?”

“Yes please,” he said quickly. He wasn’t quite able to remove his gaze from the metal fingers delicately gripping the kettle’s handle as he poured into a ceramic teapot.

Keith couldn’t name the type of tea that Shiro served him up with, but it was hot, a rich amber colour, bitter and sweet and aromatic all in one.

“Shiro,” he said, after he’d practically drained his teacup. He held it loosely in his hands, dangling it just above his knees. “Why did you join the society?”

They were sitting side-by-side on Shiro’s fabric couch.

Shiro swirled the dregs of his tea around, nothing left but leafy fragments spinning around diluted water.

“I wanted to help,” he offered, setting the cup down on the coffee table at last. “Even if I…even if I can’t play anymore, I can still enjoy the music.” He laughed, bitter and sweet like the leaves. “Although even that’s been a revelation. For a long time, I couldn’t even bear to listen to strings playing. That’s changed.”

Shiro regarded him seriously. “I like listening to you play, Keith,” he said. “I think listening to you brings out the best in me. Makes me feel like I can enjoy things again.”

Keith passed the teacup around in his hands, catching on the smooth handle and turning it this way and that. “You’ve helped me so much, Shiro,” he said, staring down. There were little patterns in the cup, cute etchings in the off-white of the ceramic. “I just want to help you too.”

Shiro sighed out, a breathy puff, but it didn’t sound angry or resigned. “Get your violin,” he said quietly.

Keith scrambled off the couch and towards the door, scooping up his case. He hurried back as soon as he had it in hand, flopping down next to Shiro. He tugged the violin out, resting it on his knees as he tightened his bow.

As soon as Keith hefted the violin, the chin rest rattled and spun off, the force of the lift making it twirl through the air towards the ground.

“Shit – ” Desperately, Keith leaned in, instinctively grabbing for it – at the same time, Shiro bent forward, reaching out –

_Crack_.

Keith reared back, clutching his head. Out of his teary, swimming vision, he saw Shiro do the same, prosthetic fingers threading through white strands as he let out a grunt of pain.

“Sorry – Shiro – ” he stumbled out, and Shiro blinked, looking slowly up at him. As their eyes met, Shiro’s lip twitched, pulling upwards, and then a moment later he was snickering, the breathy chortles turning into full blown laughter as he rolled stupidly around on the couch.

“ _Shiro_ ,” Keith said, outraged. He used Shiro’s distraction to rescue the chin rest from the ground, snapping it back onto the violin with a grumble.

“You – you alright, Keith?” Shiro gasped out.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Keith said, rubbing the tender spot on his head.

“I – I forgot how often that used to happen,” Shiro said, chest heaving unevenly as he struggled to come back down. The smile was still on his face, though, lighting his features up. He was pink-faced, aglow in joy. An answering smile crept up Keith’s lips, tugging them upwards.

“I never got around to tightening that stupid thing,” he said. Shiro shook his head.

“Mistakes happen,” he said in response.

Keith only hesitated a moment, then, he was pushing the violin towards Shiro, in both hands like some offering.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Shiro,” he said, and the room was quiet but for his quickening breath and the uneven draw of Shiro’s, staring down at the instrument with silent longing. “Forget Oriande. Forget expectations. Just play for yourself. Do it for yourself.”

Shiro’s hands were dual sensations against Keith’s, blazing hot and cool as he took the violin and bow from him, his eyes dark fire searing into Keith. The violin he tucked into his chin; the bow, so carefully held aloft in those silver fingers.

It was so, strangely intimate, Shiro poised on the couch, his knees tucked towards Keith, his head tilted a little self-consciously. Keith’s breath was being drawn from him in short pulls, he was breathless at the sight of Shiro, his eyes fluttering closed, his hands mapping the contours of at-once familiar and unfamiliar wood.

The first upbow was hesitant, scratchy. Shiro’s eyes squeezed shut and Keith was immediately there, sliding closer, placing a hand on his knee, not too suddenly. Shiro’s eyes shuddered open. His hands froze.

“Relax,” whispered Keith.

Nothing happened for a long minute – Shiro rigidly locked in place, breathing shallow and wrong.

But then, as Keith continued to rub circles into his thigh, he started again, note by note, the tension bleeding away from his shoulders. The arm – even that loosened, pulling and drawing shakily at first, then with more confidence. He played scales, arpeggios, nonsense that skittered up and down positions; he practised shifting, string crossings, refrains of Paganini that he weathered with a wry smile. Keith kept his hand on Shiro’s knee the entire time, far enough away so that he’d have space to move. Close so that Shiro still knew he was there.

The sounds were a cacophony of random noises, a jumble that wasn’t even technical practice; yet it was music to Keith anyway, a symphony, a triumph.

When Shiro finally lifted the bow from the violin again, something in him had eased, and he looked restful, younger.

“Keith,” he said, so softly, and Keith found himself fixed to that gaze and nothing else. The solid thigh dropped away – still there, but out of mind, nothing against the grey that drew him in and in.

In the corner of his vision, Shiro brought the violin away from his chin, tucking it carefully into the crook of his arm. He leaned in, closer and closer, and Keith’s breath stalled.

The press of Shiro’s warm lips against his was not a shock. He had seen it coming.

But it jolted through him anyway, a lightning strike to his shattered nerves, Shiro’s mouth soft and firm all at once, a gentle, chaste kiss that drew and drew and drew Keith away until he was gasping, a quiet hiccup as Shiro pulled back at last.

“Shiro,” Keith said, voice raspy, and crawled closer, fingers tangling in Shiro’s hair, a tender cradle around his head. He tilted into Shiro again, those warm and dry lips capturing his – imperfectly, but never any the less for it.

“We should play together,” Keith sighed against him, lips catching against Shiro’s with their closeness. “Something we can share.”

Shiro’s arm circled around him. He’d made it onto Shiro’s lap; he hadn’t even noticed, caught by the light kisses that Shiro mouthed onto him.

“Sarasate again,” Shiro whispered back, smiling, and Keith knew then that they would be fine after all. “Navarra?”

“Yes,” Keith said, and pulled him in, over and over.

*

When Shiro arrived at the next practice, a dusty case in tow, it was to whoops and cheers by the rest of their group. An extra chair was brought forth – between Keith and Pidge.

“Just until you get on your feet again,” Keith said, challengingly, “And then we’ll swap.”

Shiro grinned down at him. “My feet aren’t doing any playing, though,” he pointed out, and Keith’s face twisted into an exasperated scowl.

The pace suited them, though; they laughed and sight-read as five, mixing up timing and clefs, Lance coming in a whole bar early, Pidge accidentally dropping her bow during a dramatically silent pause.

The imperfection came at no cost but to build their teamwork.

Keith already knew Shiro’s tells; the flex in his shoulder blades before he played, the way he counted in, a muscle on his jaw flexing with each half beat.

He learned by watching the others, too – Hunk counted by rocking his heel on the ground. Pidge was an adherent to strict tempo markings, but could be convinced into an emotional rubato. Shiro laughed, and told him not to overdo it.

They fought, and argued, but rejoiced and played as one just as often. They learned as one.

And when Shiro shyly asked Allura to accompany their solo parts for Navarra, she joyfully hugged him. “Of course, Shiro,” she said. “That is _perfect_.”

It wasn’t.

But Keith didn’t mind.

It wasn’t even something they might ever attain.

But hey, they all had to start from somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](https://morthael.tumblr.com/) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/anuveon)
> 
> I ended up putting a lot of myself in this chapter, and it took a sort of unexpected turn away from what I had originally intended. But that's okay. I have a lot of complicated feelings about music, and in the end this was pretty cathartic to write. I hope you enjoyed the ride, if you made it this far, and I love to talk about this kinda stuff on twitter!
> 
> The original inspiration for Shiro's condition was the violinist Augustin Hadelich, whose right arm and face was burned/scarred in a fire when he was young. I remember reading an article that talked about how he'd needed physical therapy for months. But luckily it was his bowing arm, which doesn't require as much dexterity!
> 
> Other notes - I made Tchaik Shiro's favourite composer, because...gay. No other reason. Brahms was Keith's fav because I'm a simp for Brahms. Here is [Navarra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3BI7idvxgA&ab_channel=PaulHuang) by Sarasate. Yes I watch twoset lol


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